I met Hal when I took a job with the Kerrisdale Courier, a weekly neighborhood newspaper. Hal attended university classes daily and sandwiched in the newspaper job after classes. He acted as editor while I juggled the roles of reporter, secretary, emptier of waste baskets and, the critical one, wrestling a bunch of nine? year old paper carriers into order once a week. Talk about auditioning for your future life's work.
I remember the first time I saw him walk into the office. He was rail thin and wore a wine v-neck sweater, had a floppy blond pompadour over his forehead (very IN) and a cigarette hung out of the corner of his mouth. His hands shook slightly, presumably from lack of sleep and he radiated nervous energy. We both earned $29.50 a week.
He rushed in after classes each day and settled at our shared desk, cigarette dribbling smoke from the corner of his mouth, and a phone tucked under his chin, using any available moment to ruthlessly edit my copy, taking insensitive aim at my obituary notices.
"In this paper, people don't pass away, they die, got it? Die."
It was not love at first sight.
Our dates were not what I’d been used to. I was used to my dates taking me to the Georgia Hotel bar with the mandatory separate entrances for unescorted men and women. As I recall, no matter which entrance you chose, you ended up in the same big room.
Beer was less fun than coke floats but we were conscious of our new adult stature so we deadened the bitter taste by sprinkling salt over the froth. We’d have a beer, possibly two for my date, lots of discussion and then the boy would take me home on the streetcar.
You couldn’t buy liquor in the more sophisticated night clubs, so people smuggled in paper bags containing their bottles of alcohol. If you were hell -bent on buying it you located the closest government-run store, then you wrote out your order giving your name and address and you signed it swearing that you were over twenty-one. The clerk at the counter took the form and went to the racks to get your order, wrapped it in a paper bag and took your money. You weren’t off the hook just yet. By law, you were then expected to go straight home with the purchase, the seal remaining unbroken until you were safely indoors.
When I dated a university student, we’d either go to his frat house to shoot pool and drink rye and coke or we’d be off to some organized dance. Eventually some of them could borrow their father’s car but mostly transportation was the streetcar or bus.
Dating has changed since my courting days; that’s because we had them. Dates, I mean. My children seemed to find their mates without actually spending a nickel on the movies or dinner out and they believe a corsage is something made of whalebone that our great grandmothers wore to give them tiny wasp waists.
Hal was putting himself through university and had no time to consider fraternities but he was active in the Universities’s publications board (he wrote a mostly humor column once a week, titled, “Gobbledygook.”). We socialized with this group of people.
Our first date was combined with business. The Kerrisdale Arena had just opened and Hal was to cover a hockey game from the press box. He knew beans about hockey and at least I knew who Foster Hewitt was. I wore my best poodle skirt and was dismayed to find that the press box was unfinished. Above my head I could see a platform without walls, but containing two chairs. I sighed, then hiked up my skirts over the stiff crinoline and climbed a crude ladder leading to a platform. This was the press box. We picked up enough from the dialogue below us and from what came on the scoreboard to make a passable attempt at covering the game, while he cheerfully told me about the time he worked as high school sports correspondent for the daily paper without ever having a free moment to see any of the games. I remember chatting maniacally and gripping the stool tightly, praying I wouldn't tip over the edge into the crowd below.
We were standing in a movie line-up early on in our dating when he said casually, “I’m looking forward to the day when I am married.”
I had never in my life heard of a man even thinking that and I had no idea how to respond. It wasn’t personal then—he didn’t necessarily mean me. He just wanted to be married.
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